


Synchronicity

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Magic, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Coastal town, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Creature Dean Winchester, Incubus Castiel (Supernatural), It's a surprise - Freeform, M/M, Mating Rituals, More Top Cas though, Mythical Beings & Creatures, No Refractory Period, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Scent Kink, Seaside, Sex Feedback Loop, Sex Magic, Soulmates, Switching, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Unsafe sex (no condom usage), a very thinly veiled surprise, not abo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 01:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20498708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Dean inherits a house no one knew about and gets more than he bargained for in the process.





	1. Something Old

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally got feelings in this porn, and even a small dab of plot. My apologies. 
> 
> Just a note on the subject matter: There is ZERO non or dub-con in this fic. Everything is fully consensual. No one is influenced to do anything they don't 100% want to do. 
> 
> The accidental voyeurism tag is for Gabe, for Reasons that are completely non-sexual, just Gabriel trying to help. 
> 
> I'm posting my dark bang tomorrow night, figured I'd give y'all who aren't into dark stuff something fun to read, too. This was originally supposed to be a creepy small town fic, it devolved when @thetwistedwillow mentioned sex demons and here we are. Oh well. They're fun together, though, so maybe we will see more of them in the future. Beware: The entire third chapter is porn.

With the windows in his ‘67 Impala down and the crisp autumn air whipping through, Dean smells the ocean long before he sees it. The trip up from Kansas has been long, and while the last day or so has been incredibly scenic, Dean and his aching lower back are ready for the ride to be over. Massachusetts in the fall is all bursting colors and woodsmoke drifting through the air, reminiscent of the part of Kansas he grew up in, where festivals and community events reigned supreme. As he drives, Dean wonders why his parents never brought him and Sam up here for vacation or to visit the supposed family that’s scattered nearby. From what he’s seen so far, the small towns and rolling hills are just his mom’s style.

He winces when his thoughts drift into the present tense. _ Were. They were Mom’s style. _

It’s only been three months since his parents’ sudden passing, and Dean’s just beginning to cope with it. Sam, on the other hand, was back in the office of his West-Coast legal practice less than two weeks later. It’s not Sam’s fault he’s got a thriving career, but it’s also not Dean’s that he didn’t have the luxury of somewhere outside of Lawrence to escape to. He’d been left behind, like always, stuck cleaning out their childhood home as if the memories there weren’t all tainted and spoiled rotten. For weeks now, he’s been doing nothing but boxing up clothes and sorting through memorabilia; what to save, what to sell, and what to throw, all in preparation for selling the house. Bobby had helped him, of course, and Dean had never been more grateful for his surrogate father figure. Especially when Bobby had taken point on sorting John Winchester’s belongings, as well as clearing out the seemingly endless stack of half-empty bottles of liquor stashed strategically around the house. 

Considering the way his parents’ died, that bit just hit a little too close to home for Dean, and he wanted no part of it. 

Bobby wouldn’t let him back in the auto shop, either, not until Dean agreed to… what were the words he used? Right, _ grapple with his bullshit. _ He’d tried, naturally, sneaking in at all hours of the night to tinker under some junker’s hood, just to get his mind off of things, but Bobby always seemed to know, always managed to catch him. Dean supposes that wasn’t so bad, in the end, since it usually resulted in sitting in rockers on Bobby’s porch and silently sharing a couple of beers, but ultimately, Dean _ needed _ an out. Bobby wouldn’t let him fix cars until he worked through his feelings about his parents, and Dean couldn’t exactly do _ that _when their memories clung to everything around him, even the air. 

Last week, before he left, Dean had closed on a short sale, hauling the last of his childhood memories out of the basement and handing the keys over forever to some real estate development company. Bobby had begged him not to, told him he should take some time, think about keeping the house for himself. But Dean’s always been stubborn if nothing else, and while he wasn’t sure of much, the one thing he knew with absolute certainty was that he could never live happily ever after in John Winchester’s house. 

And maybe that’s unfair, but isn’t everything about life? Because sure, it’s been a decade since Dean had gotten caught making out with Benny, sparking the fight that led to his dad to kicking him to the curb. But some part of him would always be that devastated eighteen-year-old kid inside. His father had been his idol, and just like that, snap of the fingers, he’d become the villain. John Winchester hated his son for wanting to be himself, but that’s something Dean came to terms with years ago. Today, living in that house would only remind him of what a disappointment he was, of what a disappointment his father was to him in return. 

As he winds his way through the increasingly rural roads, the smell of the sea grows stronger and Dean can’t help but feel conflicted about this journey once again. Over the years, he’d maintained a distant but friendly relationship with his mother, but they’d never been close again, not like how they had been when Dean was a child. While his mother hadn’t exactly sided with John, she hadn’t sided with Dean, either, and that had manufactured a rift that no amount of casual lunches and weekly text check-ins could fix. In some ways, Dean feels like he’s been chasing after the ghost of his mother for years, long before his father put them both in an early grave.

So what exactly did he think coming up here was going to prove, when he decided to do it? What did he think he would _ find? _Dean knows one thing for sure; if this surprise property in Massachusetts had anything to do with his father or his father’s side of the family, he would have just sold it from afar and pocketed the money, no further exploration needed.

But his mother… Dean still remembers her being soft, and kind. Making his favorite pie and serving it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Singing “Hey, Jude,” to help him fall asleep at night. Heating up Tomato and Rice soup when he was sick. Despite his Mom’s failure to outright choose him over his father, she also had never explicitly rejected him, and Dean had _ always _figured that someday, they’d make things right. Now, he’d never have that chance.

So Dean supposes he’s grateful for this, whatever happens to lie at the end of this road. The lawyer who executed his parents’ wills didn’t have any details to give him, just a deed, an address, and a handful of keys. Oh, and the name of the live-in caretaker; _ Castiel. _ Weird name, and Dean hopes the guy won’t be too broken up that he hasn’t got the money to keep paying him to do whatever it is he does there. With Dean’s luck, he’ll end up driving a thousand miles just to tell some dude he’s fired. Anyway, supposedly, the house had been handed down from Mary’s father to her when he’d died, but Samuel Campbell had passed away when Dean was around ten, Deanna Campbell long before that, and Dean has no recollection of any discussion about inheriting a house happening between his parents at all. Dean _ did _ know that his mother hadn’t spoken to _ her _ own parents in years even back then, didn’t so much as send flowers for her father’s funeral. He supposes that might explain why she wrote her inheritance off completely. Still, it seemed strange that the Winchesters apparently owned an entire _ house _and had never so much as gone to visit it. 

_ Families, _ Dean thinks, with a shake of his head. _ Who needs ‘em. _

He’s got Sam, busy as he is, and he’s got Bobby, and that’s just going to have to be enough for Dean. Yearly Thanksgiving reunions with giant spreads and nieces and nephews running wild were just never in the cards for the Winchesters. 

Well, not for him, anyway. There’s still hope for Sam. As far as settling down goes, Dean can reluctantly admit that there’s nothing stopping him, per se, but it’s never exactly gone well when he’s tried. _ Man-whore _ is the word Sam uses, but Dean prefers to think of himself as a gentleman with a varied set of needs. One woman (or one man, hey, who is he to set arbitrary limits on pleasure?) has never been able to keep Dean’s attention for long. Because of that, he’s more the “love ‘em and leave ‘em” type, but at least he’s upfront about it. The last person he’d tried to actually make a go of things with, Lisa, had ended up booting him to the curb when he’d asked _ one _ too many times about having a threesome. Hey, there’s no harm in asking, right? _ Asking _ was better than the alternative, which would have been admitting to Lisa that he found their sex life… lackluster. If he’s being honest, Dean was relieved when she’d let him go. 

Regardless, ever since then, Dean’s stuck to the classics. One-night-stands, booty calls, friends with benefits. No emotions, no attachments, just get in, get off, get gone. And hey, he’s a sexual guy, he’s got itches to scratch, and there’s nothing wrong with any of that, so long as everyone involved is consenting and having fun too. 

It’s just that sometimes… Dean feels like there’s gotta be _ more_. Like he’s got a hole inside his chest, like he’s _ missing _ something, a piece of the puzzle everyone else just seems to _ have _that he wasn’t given. Regardless, that nagging feeling isn’t anywhere near enough to make him want to try the whole “settling down” thing again, not when it still feels inevitable it’ll end the same way. Dean knows he hurt Lisa, and he’s not actually an unfeeling asshole. If he can spare some other poor chick (or dude) that disappointment in Dean’s inability to chain himself to one person, then he figures he owes the world that much. He’s good with the way things are. Really.

And on days like today, he _ feels _ good about that. Rolling through town, Dean can’t help eyeing up the local talent. Fall temperatures mean yoga pants, and for that reason, Dean’s not even upset that he’s in a beach town when it’s not bikini and sundress weather. Maybe he’ll come back and hit up one of the bars later tonight, it’s been a few days since he got laid. That’s assuming the place he’s headed for is any kind of suitable to bring a date back to. Dean scratches at the light stubble peppering his chin and hopes that the caretaker is decent. He didn’t drive all this way to fucking _ clean. _

Grabbing the printed directions sitting on the passenger’s side of the car, Dean confirms the upcoming turns in the road. He makes a mistake anyway, finding himself navigating an accidental detour down a side street that winds around a cove with a long stretch of sandy beach. Large rocks dot the beach’s edges, and far out past where the tails of the inlet curve inward, Dean can see a few fishing boats dotting the water. To their left are a few ridiculously enormous houses planted on one of the outcroppings of land that stretch towards the sea, and Dean snorts at the idea that his mother could own a house someplace so pretentious. She’d commented more than once in his youth that having three bedrooms and _ two _whole bathrooms was a luxury, and most of these places look like his childhood home could fit inside their garage. 

_ No doubt the whole damn town is filled with spoiled, uppity assholes, _Dean thinks. 

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what the hell he thinks he’s going to find here, in Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts. Bunch of dusty, empty rooms and more buildings that feel as if his mom should be there when she’s not. For all Dean knows, she never has been. Sighing and shaking his head, he figures he’s already here, so he might as well check it out. Worst comes to worst, he’ll tell Bobby he spent the week communing with the ocean, proclaim himself “emotionally healed,” all at peace and right with the world and shit. No way Bobby’ll buy a word of that, but he can only turn Dean away from the shop for so long, especially if he sticks to his guns. In the meantime, Dean can hopefully _ commune _with some of the girls he saw walking in town earlier, make the most of this dumb idea. 

The last turn on Dean’s directions is onto a road called Coolidge Point, and if that name isn’t enough of a warning on its own, the fact that it clearly leads only one place _ definitely _ fills in the blanks. “Hoo, boy,” Dean mutters under his breath as he rides down a path with only a few houses littering each side, all of them larger than the ones he’d spotted from the beach. The road curves as it tapers toward the tip of the little peninsula and Dean spots a house on the right that’s smaller than all the rest. _ That must be it, _he thinks, but when he compares the house number on his information to the one on the mailbox, it doesn’t match. Feeling increasingly flustered, Dean continues on until he finds number thirty-five. 

Upon driving up, there’s another home and some trees blocking the full view, but Dean can already tell that the outline of the house at the end of the driveway marked for number thirty-five is more size-akin to a fucking _ hotel _ than a single-family home. Which, speaking of the driveway, it’s three times as long as the entire _ house _ in Lot number thirty-three, and that’s saying something, cuz the thing ain’t small. Dean creeps down it cautiously, half-worried that he’s got the wrong address and killer dogs are going to leap out from the bushes and attack his Baby. Nothing happens, though, that is, if you count a giant fucking mansion emerging from behind the trees and perched on the edge of a rocky cliff as _ nothing. _

“Holy mother of—no fucking way,” Dean mutters to himself, craning his neck to try and take in the house, the yard, the scenery, all of it at once. “This ain’t a _ house, _ it’s a fucking apartment complex!” Just from a quick sweep of his eyes across it, Dean can count more than twenty windows on the street-facing side alone, _ and _ a goddamn turret. A _ turret. _The house is beautiful though, he has to admit. The siding is light blue and weathered, but not so much that it makes the place look aged, just ocean-kissed. White trim and columns add charm, and there’s a covered wraparound porch that seems to start on the left side of the house and end on the right, sprawling across the side that faces out towards the sea. Multiple chimneys, multiple doors, and the driveway splits, one side spanning the front of the house and the other dipping down a slight hill to end at a stylish, wooden-doored two-car garage. And that’s to say nothing of the view—perhaps it goes without saying, but it’s spectacular. The far edge of the property drops off beyond the house to reveal the Atlantic Ocean, a vast stretch of it, dark blue water as far as the eye can see.

The reality of the whole picture put together is surreal. Speechless, Dean opts to pull the car up alongside the front door, before realizing that there are actually two. “I should go home,” he mutters. “Nothing good is gonna come of this.” But despite his own words, he parks, turns his Baby off, and exits the car. There are no other vehicles in the driveway, so Dean’s left to wonder if the caretaker is even here, though he supposes it’s possible he parks in the garage. Instantly, Dean feels like even more of an invader. Sure, _ technically _ this is his house, but he doesn’t live here. He _ is _essentially walking into some random dude’s home. 

_ Well, _ Dean thinks, _ Here goes nothing, _ but at the door, he hesitates. He does have the key, but would it be rude to use it? The attorney he’d dealt with had mentioned letting this _ Castiel _guy know he was coming, but Dean had been overwhelmed and sort of tuned that part of the conversation out. It suddenly seems a lot more important now, and he wishes fruitlessly that he’d listened. Stalling for time, he pulls out his phone and shoots a message off to his brother. 

_ Sammy, facetime me when you get this. You’re gonna wanna see this thing for yourself. _

There’s no immediate response so Dean sighs, pocketing his phone once again, the cool ocean breeze kicking up and ruffling his hair. Raising his hand to knock, Dean changes his mind again at the last second, deciding that he’s not going to start out this trip by acting like a guest in his own house. Before he can lose his nerve or waver any more, he shoves the key marked “_Front Door” _ into the lock. It doesn’t turn. Confused, he pulls it out and notices a second key with the same label, except with a “#2” at the end. Leaning back, he looks down the front of the house and wonders how the hell someone decides which front door gets relegated to second best. _ Friggin’ yuppies. _

This time when he inserts the key, the doorknob turns. 

When Dean steps over the threshold, it’s all he can do to keep his jaw from dropping like some kind of cartoon character. Inside, the house is even more stunning than out, if that’s even possible. The foyer Dean’s standing in opens in all directions and he’s clueless where he should even start. To his left is a winding staircase that ascends the interior of the turret, which Dean is only _ slightly _ disappointed isn’t actually rounded on the inside. Beyond that is a hallway, and Dean doesn’t have to go down it to identify multiple closed doors plus a built-in desk framed by drawers and cabinets with elegant iron piping crisscrossing their glass inlays. He blinks and turns his head to the right, looking through two doorways to the kitchen, which Dean is fairly certain is bigger than his entire apartment above Bobby’s garage. _ The hell were these people cooking for, an army? _

Ignoring the mega-kitchen for the time being, Dean opts to walk straight forward instead, over the pristine hardwood floors and into what must be the main living and dining space. Dean feels a little less manly even thinking this, but the room is _ gorgeous, _straight up, no other word for it. Open and airy, the space is all cream walls with white trim, lined with windows and glass doors from one end to the other. It’s apparent that the architect took full advantage of the house having views of the water from three sides, and from where he’s standing, Dean can take in all three. He can also see straight out over the wrap-around balcony to the ocean, an expanded view of what was visible upon driving up. 

Right in front of him, there’s a dining table with expensive-looking, carved wooden chairs and an enormous sitting area beyond that. The plan is open, and the living space has a variety of plush furniture and a shaggy area rug laid in front of a large fireplace with a green marble inset. There’s no dust, nothing falling apart, no outdated and peeling wallpaper in sight. In fact, for being so big, the house feels _cozy. _Neat and definitely furnished with an extravagant budget, but still soft and lived-in, if anything. The kitchen is similar when Dean turns to take it in; oversized, but immaculately clean and functional. Dean spies a coffee maker with a half-full pot on one of the countertops positioned next to a saran-wrapped plate of muffins and a bunch of bananas.

Clear signs of life, but no actual _ life _anywhere to be seen. 

Like he’s been heralded, one of the doors leading out to the wrap-around balcony suddenly opens and a man steps through. Because of the size of the room, he’s still a good fifty feet away from where Dean stands at the edge of the kitchen, but even with the distance, Dean can see that he’s attractive. Standing about an inch or two shorter than Dean’s own height, the man is tanned and bed-headed, his dark brown hair looking like it’s allergic to going in one direction. Without his permission, Dean’s eyes roam freely, taking in the curve of the man’s biceps, his trim waist, the way his thighs strain against the fabric of his seriously dorky khaki shorts. 

_ Oh boy, _Dean thinks, his mouth going dry. And when the man looks up, Dean can’t seem to look away, though at least the feeling appears to be mutual. Cobalt blue stares back as the man edges forward, something about the edges of his irises seeming to sparkle, though Dean chalks that up to a trick of the sun streaming in through the multitude of windows. The man opens his mouth to speak as he steps forward again but Dean doesn’t hear a word he says, because his world is suddenly heady and filled with light. A green blast, like an overwhelming aura, fills his vision and makes his head ache. Dean yelps and grabs his face, squeezing his eyes shut as he falls to his knees. “What the—?” 

But just as quickly as it came, the color disappears and the sensations recede, leaving Dean gaping and confused on the floor. He blinks heavily before rubbing a hand across his eyes, expecting to look up and see the blue-eyed man still staring back, probably totally bewildered and wondering what kind of freak had wandered into his home. But when Dean _ does _ pull himself together enough to glance up, the man is gone, the door to the balcony still in the process of swinging wide in his wake. It’s probably just as well because Dean’s traitorous body is suddenly in the process of having the _ strangest _ reaction to his little flash-migraine… whatever that was, leaving him kneeling on the hardwood with… equally _ hard wood _inside his pants. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters out loud, pressing the heel of his hand to his denim-covered dick and letting out a groan that’s more frustration than anything else. “Well, this is going great.” 

Once Dean gets a handle on his body (and is reasonably sure he’s not going to be incapacitated again by blinding light and pain), he decides to resume his walkthrough of the house. It’s not as if Castiel left him much choice, what with the fleeing and all. Dean figures after he’ll pick a room, dump his luggage, and then head back into town. Maybe clear his head with a couple of beers and a few fingers of whiskey. Worst case scenario, a little liquid courage wouldn’t be the worst thing to have in his system the next time he interacts with _ Castiel. _He finds himself wishing he knew why the guy took off like that, and semi-dreading seeing him again.

_ Semi _ being the operative word because as Dean puts his plan into motion, dragging his duffles out of Baby’s trunk and up the stairs, he can’t get the dude out of his mind. It probably doesn’t help much when he opens the door to what is clearly the master bedroom, and it _ smells _ like Castiel. Prior to that moment, Dean couldn’t have made the wildest guess as to what the man smelled like, but upon stepping into his room and catching a whiff, his brain assigns it to _ Castiel _immediately. Shelving for the time being how very odd and out of place that thought process is, Dean glances around the room, taking it all in. He’s surprised to find it messier than the rest of the house, with clothes and shoes strewn about the floor. Castiel’s space is large, filled with a giant bed and plain, functional wooden furniture. It’s much more modest than everything else Dean has seen thus far, plain yet comfortable. The room also sports a wide balcony, and unsurprisingly, more stunning views of the ocean. 

Fighting off a strange twisting in his gut, Dean backs out and closes the door behind him, left oddly bereft as he navigates the hallway in search of another, hopefully unoccupied, bedroom. Unbidden, Castiel’s eyes, his wild hair, and that questioning, searching look on his face as he stepped towards Dean fill his mind again. Thinking back, Dean could almost _ swear _he saw Castiel’s eyes begin to glow, but he dismisses that thought as quickly as it comes, sure that what he saw was simply affected by that crazy aura that flashed across his own vision. 

_ Am I having seizures now? _ Dean wonders absently, stopping in the middle of the hall to pull out his phone and see if Sam’s replied to his text, but no such luck. He decides that when he gets to the bar, he’ll do some googling and try to figure out what could have brought all this on, and if he should get his ass to a doctor. _ Maybe just the long drive and not eating much today, _ he reasons. _ That’s probably all it was. Just need a beer and a burger, and everything will be back to normal. _ Dean resolutely ignores the looming issue of _ Castiel, _since it’s currently not something he can do anything about and is unlikely to be solved by either of the aforementioned things.

After opening a few more doors and comparing his options, Dean settles on the queen-sized bed stuffed into a _ second _ turret, though this one actually is rounded on the inside. It feels like he’s in a fucking castle or something, no way he’s turning down the opportunity to sleep there. The room itself isn’t the biggest. There’s no ensuite bathroom or balcony, unlike almost every other room he’s toured, but the curved wall across from the bed is almost wall-to-wall glass from the waist up, and the view is the real show-stopper, anyway. It’s a slight drag that there’s hardly enough space for a small table and a dresser on either side of the bed, but Dean’s not fussy. He figures whatever can’t be put away can just be left in his duffles. It’s not as if he’s planning on being here for _ that _long. 

In fact, after the little welcome party he’d been thrown downstairs, it’s taking a _ lot _ of inner strength not to simply turn tail and bolt back to Kansas. Dean wonders if he should _ want _ to leave this house, _ Castiel, _ and whatever weirdness it has to offer in the wind. It’d certainly be easy to do just that, to hire a real estate agent from afar and to simply pocket the profits, forget about this place altogether. The house is probably worth millions, he _ should _want to do that. As Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and stares out over the nearly-waveless sea, he honestly isn’t quite sure what’s keeping him from enacting that very plan. Castiel’s face flashes across his mind once again, alongside a strange desire to see him. 

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean grabs his keys and heads back downstairs. After a quick peek around to ensure that Castiel hasn’t returned, he locks up the house and hops in his car, pointing it towards town. _ Enough about that guy, _he scolds himself, rolling the window down and taking some cleansing breaths of cool, salt-infused air. He feels better already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FORGOT to post a link to the actual house!! Here it is :)
> 
> https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/35-Coolidge-Pt_Manchester_MA_01944_M45968-75415


	2. Something New

Dean’s smartphone tells him that the little village of Magnolia is closer than the actual town of Manchester, so he turns right instead of left out of Coolidge Point. Never being one to get precious about bars and alcohol in general, Dean only has to drive for a couple of minutes before parking and heading inside the first one he sees. It seems as good a choice as any, a full-service Tavern with a long, zig-zag bar and a full liquor license. Dean sets up shop at the far end, where he can people watch and try to get a feel for the locals. He keeps his expectations low, but everyone seems friendly enough. 

Sometime after his second beer, right around when Dean switches to whiskey, a group of laughing, already tipsy women walk in and sit in a cluster a few bar stools down from him. A few of them look his way almost immediately, and Dean winks and smiles, but his heart isn’t quite in it. He looks the group over, tries to imagine himself with each of the women in turn, and _ nothing _ lights his fire. Dean can’t remember the last time he was presented with the opportunity for sex and turned it down, can’t recall ever _ not _being in the mood, come to think of it. More often than not, he’s the one lookin’ to scratch an itch and finding the pool empty of potential dates. Not that that particular scenario has happened frequently, but definitely more often than his sex drive spontaneously drying up. 

Except, saying he’s _ dry _ isn’t exactly true, either. The reality is just… a lot more confusing, and far more complicated. Because the fact is, Dean’s interests, his _ desire, _ is simply hyper-focused right now in a really bizarre direction. _ Dark hair, blue eyes, muscular thighs… _ Jesus fuck, what is _ wrong _ with him? He met the dude for literally thirty seconds before he repulsed him so badly the guy _ ran _in the other direction. It’s not the most romantic or sexy first meeting Dean’s ever struck with a potential fuck buddy, and yet, he can’t seem to drag his mind away from him. 

Maybe he _ should _try his luck with one of the girls, after all. He probably just needs a reset. Yea, that’s not the worst idea he’s ever had. But before Dean can open his mouth to say something to the blonde in tight jeans sitting nearest to his stool, he’s preempted by a sultry voice in front of him. 

“So, you’re new,” the bartender remarks, her smile openly flirtatious as she tops off Dean’s drink. “On the house,” she says with a wink. “New kid special. I’m Pamela.” Dean looks up at her thoughtfully, eyes drifting over the tight tank top and low-slung jeans that emphasize all of her best assets. Not to mention, her long, dark hair and dark eyes are exactly his preferred type, and he’ll go to his grave insisting that, despite the (_irritating) _ flash of blue sparking across the backs of his eyelids. 

“Dean,” he replies, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Winchester.” He takes a sip and almost misses the way the bottle slips a little in Pamela’s hand.

“Winchester… you’re not _ Mary _Winchester’s kid, are you?” 

“Uh,” Dean replies articulately, sputtering a little as his whiskey goes down the wrong way. _ Smooth, _he scowls to himself, wiping a hand across his face and shrugging guiltily up at the bartender. “Hi?” 

“Sorry,” she apologies quickly, picking up a dishrag and offering it to him, but Dean waves her off, perfectly happy with using his sleeve. “That was… well, anyway, I heard you were coming.” 

“You heard?”

Pamela shrugs and doesn’t avert her eyes, clearly sizing him up. “Small town. So, you inherited that big old house on Coolidge Point, huh?” 

Dean shakes his head and takes another sip. “Don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with it. More space than I’ve seen in my entire life. Not sure I want it, kinda wish my mom would’ve taken care of it, used the money to fund my little brother’s education or something. Anything but leaving it to me.”

“Makes you a rare individual,” Pamela comments, putting her dishrag to use drying the inside of a few glasses. “Most would jump at the chance to get their hands on a place like that.”

“Yea, well.” Dean stares down into his dwindling drink, unsure what else to say. Pamela’s hot, but she unnerves him for some reason that Dean can’t quite put his finger on. She laughs suddenly before turning to bend over and retrieve a bottled beer from the fridge underneath the bar. The back of her tank rides up, revealing a tattoo across her lower back that says, “Jesse Forever.”

“Who’s Jesse?” Dean asks, curious despite himself, and Pamela straightens up with a grin.

“Well it wasn’t forever,” she retorts. 

“His loss,” he replies automatically.

“Might be your gain,” Pamela replies, leaning down on her elbows in front of him on the bar. Dean swallows, realizing he’s gotten himself in deep, faster than he might have anticipated. All of a sudden, he’s not entirely sure he can go through with this, whatever he’s playing at here, maybe _ especially _because Pamela is seriously willing. Fortunately, Pamela’s also intuitive as hell, and her expression changes as he falters. She leans back a little and tilts her head to the side, looking him over like Dean’s a puzzle she’d love to piece together. “Or,” she says, her tone thoughtful but still playful, “Maybe I’m not your type.” 

Resisting the urge to groan in frustration, Dean hangs his head and sighs. “Any other day,” he says with a sigh. “I’m kind of… out of sorts right now. Traveling and the house… it’s a lot,” he adds weakly, but Pamela just narrows her eyes and nods in understanding.

“Did you meet the caretaker yet? Castiel?” 

“What?” Dean’s head snaps up, and he can tell by the small smirk on Pamela’s face that bringing up Castiel just then was no accident. _ How _she could possibly have known to twist that knife without reading his mind, Dean has no clue, but the fact remains. Pamela doesn’t press, though, only shrugs and tips some more liquor into his glass. Dean swallows it all in one burning gulp. 

“He’s a nice guy,” she offers, pouring herself a few fingers too. “Little weird, keeps to himself, mostly.”

“Why… weird?” Most of Dean is telling him to flee from this conversation, but his curiosity about Castiel wins out easily against that urge. 

“Well, I mean, every girl and half of the men in this town want to bend over for him, but he stays holed up in that big, drafty old house by himself. Only comes to town for groceries and mansion-upkeep supplies, whatever those might be, I wouldn’t know. I’ve got a studio above this joint. Don’t you think that’s strange?” Pamela sticks out a lip thoughtfully and doesn’t wait for a reply from Dean before she continues. “To each their own, I guess. He’s _ hot _though. I suppose the mystery only adds to the appeal.” 

Dean half-nods, half-shrugs and sips his drink for lack of anything to reply, but Pamela keeps looking at him expectantly. “He’s… something,” he finally says. Fortunately, Pamela seems satisfied with that. 

“Well, anyway,” she says. “Keep me in mind, sugar. If you ever find yourself… not otherwise occupied.” She winks again and wanders down the bar to serve another customer, leaving Dean torn. Ultimately, though, he just isn’t in the mood to take Pamela home, so he throws a couple of bills onto the bar and makes his escape before she can return. 

By the time he’s sliding back inside the Impala, it’s almost fully dark. Dean’s tipsy, but not drunk, and the drive back is only a few minutes, so he goes for it. He almost misses the turn into Coolidge Point, swinging wide and nearly taking the Impala off-road, but he makes it. And when he pulls into the driveway once again, the lights are on inside the house, and it actually looks… welcoming. Still _ way _too big for Dean’s taste, but with the sun dropping down behind the horizon and warm, yellow light streaming through the windows, the place could nearly pass for homey. After parking and turning off the car, Dean takes a moment to gather his wits before heading inside. The lights may look inviting, but they also mean that Castiel is in there, waiting for him.

Well, not waiting for _ him, _ probably. They haven’t even technically met yet. Dean hates himself for the swooping feeling that lands in his gut anyway. He can’t help but feel annoyed that his body isn’t remotely concerned about these apparently trivial _ details, _ as if forgoing any actual human interaction before striking up an obsession with someone is perfectly normal. What is _ wrong _with him? Dean hasn’t been this lust-sick since puberty hit. Still, he and Castiel do need to talk. About the house, specifically Dean’s intentions of selling it, if nothing else. Maybe then they can start over, forget the whole awkward scene in the living room altogether. 

Doing his best not to get his hopes up, after all, Pamela had basically painted the guy as an antisocial recluse, Dean walks up to the door, and when the handle turns, steps inside. 

The house is as bright and welcoming from the inside as it looked when Dean drove up. Additionally, the smell of something unquestionably meaty and savory fills his nostrils, and he realizes he forgot to grab something to eat at the bar. Explains why he’s feeling more tipsy than usual on what, for him, amounts to a relatively small amount of alcohol. Partially following his nose and definitely not the slight pull in his fluttering stomach, Dean finds his way into the kitchen to discover Castiel stirring a pot on the stove. 

All of a sudden, Dean’s struck by how _ domestic _ this scene is, how out of place he is in it. The table is set for two, the front door was open, and Castiel is cooking while wearing a fucking frilly apron with tiny, embroidered bees on it. _ Oh, shit. He’s waiting for someone, _ Dean realizes, increasingly embarrassed that he’d all but passed out on the guy when they first met, and now he’s interrupting the dude’s _date. _ Dean starts to back away, clumsily bumping into a counter and disturbing a bowl of wax fruit. The noise of it wobbling in circles makes Castiel turn around and brings Dean to a full stop, overwhelmed all over again with how goddamn _ attractive _this guy is. 

“Sorry, man,” Dean apologizes, lifting his hands in defeat before scratching at the back of his neck, feeling awkward as hell. “I’m really stepping in it here. Listen, I’ll—I’ll get out of your hair. I’m just gonna grab my things from upstairs, I saw a motel on my way into town. I’ll shack up there for the night, come back tomorrow when you aren’t busy. Shit, I feel like such an ass. Um, do you have a phone number or something? So I don’t… interrupt anything in the morning?”

Dean waits for a reply, shifting from foot to foot, but Castiel just narrows his eyes and turns the heat off the pot. “Hello, Dean,” he says simply, and Dean should have fucking _ guessed _ this dude’s voice would be as goddamn sexy as the rest of him. Like whiskey poured over gravel, Dean’s never even heard that timbre in someone who wasn’t _ extremely _ hungover or who hadn’t been throat-fucked within an inch of their life only minutes prior. Of _ course, _he sounds like that. Of course. Dean’s almost in physical pain as he watches Castiel slip the apron over his head and fold it neatly on the counter.

“Uh, yea, hi, Cas,” he finally replies, the nickname rolling naturally off of his tongue and embarrassing him further, but Castiel just quirks a small smile, staring down into whatever is in that pot. Apparently, Castiel did know who he was, or he does now, either way, Dean supposes that’s a good thing. When the silence stretches, Dean clears his throat. “So… that number? I swear, I wasn’t trying to intrude.” 

“I made this for you,” Castiel tells him, and that’s unexpected. “I was hoping you’d forgive me for running out on you earlier, I…” He trails off while still considering Dean carefully, but instead of continuing, he carries the pot over to the table and begins ladling stew into each of the two bowls. “Please.” He motions to the chair opposite where he stands. “Have a seat.”

Abruptly lacking any excuse not to, Dean complies, and Castiel joins him after returning to the kitchen and retrieving a loaf of bread from the oven. “It’s not homemade,” he says apologetically. “I just warmed it up.” 

“Dude,” Dean replies, genuinely astonished. “Most of my meals come from take-out joints or the microwave. This looks awesome.” 

Castiel smiles shyly as he opens the refrigerator. He holds up two beers in a wordless question, to which Dean nods enthusiastically, thinking that more alcohol would be extremely welcome at this point. The stew winds up being delicious and they eat in silence for several minutes, not uncomfortable but not easy, either. Dean has to keep reminding himself that they’re strangers, his gaze constantly drawn to the man across the table. Oddly enough, he frequently finds Castiel looking back, his eyes darting away just as soon as Dean’s meet them. Finally, Dean drops his spoon, sighing happily and wiping his face with the cloth napkin set next to his plate, as if that’s something he’s ever done in his life before this moment. 

“This was great, thanks, Cas. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

There’s a short pause as Castiel seems to gather his thoughts. “I wanted to,” he says eventually. “This is your house, after all. Your family has been gracious enough to allow me to live here for all this time.” 

“Yea, about that,” Dean hedges. “We should probably talk. Look, man, I didn’t know this place existed until a couple of weeks ago. My mom… she didn’t like to talk about her family, and apparently, this place has something to do with them. The thing is…” Dean gestures around. “This isn’t me. I’m a mechanic, dude. A grease monkey. I live in a one-room studio apartment. I wouldn’t know what to do with a house like this if it landed in my lap. Which, I guess, is the best explanation for what’s happened here. So I just thought you should know… I can’t afford to… pay you or whatever. I just came up here to figure out the best way for me to unload this thing.” 

The little ridge between Castiel’s eyebrows furrows, and he tilts his head to the side. “So… you drove all the way up here to tell me that I’m fired?” 

Dean fidgets with the napkin that’s made its way into his lap. “Uh, yea, I guess so. Sorry, man.” 

Castiel licks his lips and drums his fingers on the table, and Dean definitely does _ not _track both movements greedily with his eyes. “Dean,” Castiel says firmly, “How much do you know about your mother’s family, the Campbells?” 

Thrown by the sudden change in conversation, Dean blinks and then shrugs. “Not much. Like I said, she—”

“Didn’t like to talk about them, right.” Castiel sighs and leans back in his chair. When he looks up again, his eyes are determined. “There is much we need to discuss, Dean, and most of it has nothing to do with this house. You _ should _ know, however, that you were never expected to _ pay _ me. There is an account for the upkeep and improvement of the property that Samuel—your grandfather—established. If you sell the house, that trust will be dissolved. I have no idea what will happen to the money in it.” 

“Okay,” Dean replies slowly. “What are talking, like a couple thousand or something? Enough for stew and lightbulbs?” 

“Millions,” Castiel replies evenly. “Enough to cover property taxes, upkeep, necessary renovations, and yes, necessities for the caretaker.” 

“Huh,” Dean replies. He probably should have figured something like that existed, otherwise, how would a place like this still look the way it does after all these years? But still, the idea that he owns this house _ and _millions of dollars to care for it, it’s more than Dean’s fully capable of processing at the moment. So he does what he does best, and shoves all of that info aside for the time being. “Listen, I’m pretty beat,” he tells Castiel. “I mean that’s… that’s great about the money and all, but I’m not sure that it changes anything. But I’ll think about it, or whatever. Maybe you can show me the details tomorrow. I think my eyes might cross if I start trying to make sense of bank statements tonight.” 

Castiel just stares at him, arms folded across his chest, biceps testing the limits of the seams holding together the cotton button-down he’s wearing. That seems to be a pattern with this guy and clothes, and Dean’s not sure whether he loves or hates it more. “You have much bigger worries than what is or isn’t in that bank account, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean’s feeble attempt at a subtle goodnight. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and Dean suddenly feels like a bug under a microscope; powerless beneath Castiel’s scrutiny, and helpless to flee. 

“Um…” 

“Have you truly never wondered why your appetite is so insatiable?” 

Taken aback, Dean touches his chest. “I mean, I like a good meal, I don’t see how—”

Castiel makes a dissenting noise and shakes his head. “Not _ that _kind of hunger.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly. “Let me guess, multiple lovers per week, no long-term relationships, repeat sexual encounters with the same person are unsatisfying, leaving you craving more?”

“Whoa there, buddy.” Dean balks, choking down the simmering heat his body reacts with upon learning that Castiel’s thought about him and sex in the same context at all. “That’s uh, kind of personal,” is what he says out loud. 

“Your mother kept secrets from you.” Castiel presses on, his eye contact never wavering. “Things about who you are and where you came from. You should have been told years ago, should have been raised knowing the truth.” 

“Listen, dude. I don’t really see how that’s any of your—” 

“I’ll be blunt. You’re a succubus, Dean. You come from a long line of them, on your mother’s side. Not every Campbell was one, of course. Unlike incubi, maternally-descended succubi are unpredictable in their lineage. Sometimes they skip a generation, sometimes the gene manifests in one child but not another from the same set of parents. It makes identifying soulmates among incubi… difficult.” 

“Succu… what?” Dean replies weakly, honestly unsure if Castiel’s insane or fucking with him. 

But he doesn’t look as if he’s joking. Licking his lips, Castiel reaches out like he intends to cover Dean’s hand with his own, but pulls back at the last second. “Dean,” he says deliberately. “I’m sorry that you have to hear this news in this way, but given the circumstances, I don’t see another option.” He pauses and Dean waits, sensing he isn’t done. “It’s all real,” Castiel declares. “Vampires, zombies, werewolves, incubi, succubi—everything you've ever dreaded was under your bed but told yourself couldn't be by the light of day. They're _ all _real.” 

Dean does a double-take. “Did you just quote Buffy the Vampire Slayer at me?” 

In return, Castiel simply blinks innocently. “I didn’t think you’d recognize it. It seemed apt, and origin aside, it _ is _ true.” 

“Oh, well, if Buffy says so—”

“Giles, actually.” 

“Right, he would know.” Dean stops talking and stares openly at Castiel, waiting for him to… _ something. _ Laugh, yell “ _ Psych! _ ” Anything, really. It’s one thing for this dude to be a little quirky, it’s a whole other for him to have crazy beliefs that involve Dean’s entire fucking _ family. _ His very _ dead _family. So when Castiel continues to sit there, unsmiling and unapologetic, Dean can’t help but get a little bit angry. “Listen, man,” he says, “This really isn’t cool. Not to roll sideways into touchy-feely emotional territory, but my mom died like a month ago. So I don’t need your bullshit, new-agey… whatever this is, trying to smear the few good memories I have left. That’s really messed up, and I’m not gonna sit here and take it, capiche?”

“I… capiche,” Castiel parrots back, but his face is all scrunched up, and he doesn’t look as if he understands at all. Which is why when Dean goes to stand and Castiel reaches out again, he’s not as surprised as he probably should be. He is, however, exhausted, and not in the mood to argue.

“Cas…” 

“Dean, please,” Castiel implores, looking up at him with a face full of pure sincerity. “I don’t know what I’m doing, here. I’ve never… please. There’s more, and I don’t think you should leave this room without hearing the rest. It wouldn’t be… fair to you. If, when I’m done, you still think that I’m crazy or you simply don’t feel comfortable around me…” Castiel looks pained as he says those words and Dean does his best to ignore the little stab in his own chest, too, because _ why? _“I won’t try to stop you from leaving. Or whatever else you feel that you need to do.” 

Hesitating and glancing longingly towards the stairs leading up to his waiting bed, Dean reluctantly sighs and sits back down. Castiel withdraws his outstretched hand, still without touching him, and Dean can’t quite figure out why that feels disappointing. “I don’t know what you want from me, buddy,” he says instead of dwelling on it.

That pained expression flits across Castiel’s face once more before he speaks, though he quickly schools it away. “I apologize for making it seem as though I was speaking ill of your mother. For what it’s worth, all things considered, it seems unlikely that Mary knew what you are. She may not have even believed in her family’s history, herself. From what I understand, she left home shortly after meeting your father and never returned. Samuel and my own father were close, and your Grandfather never liked talking about what happened between them. But he missed Mary, and I do believe… If he had known about you, Dean, if he had _ any _ idea, I’m positive he would have ensured that Mary told you. Or done it himself. Not simply because of the consent issue, but because your safety, your ability to live a happy, fulfilled life depends on _ having _that knowledge, and Samuel knew that.”

“_Consent _issue?” 

Castiel nods and sips his beer before continuing. “Your sexual appetite is more than just a drive. You’re feeding, Dean. That’s what succubi do. Fortunately, you’re somewhat less potent than an incubus, so it’s unlikely you could kill or damage a human just from having intercourse. So long as you weren’t denying yourself or abstaining for long periods of time, of course.” 

“Did you just call me mystically flaccid?!” 

“Of course not,” Castiel replies, looking confused.

Despite the circumstances and his continuing suspicions that Castiel needs some serious mental help, Dean snorts. “I’m well-fed,” he remarks, hoping Castiel’s following his train of thought. “When I want a drink, I drink. When I want sex, I go get it. The same goes for a sandwich or a fight.” He shrugs and mirrors Castiel’s motions with his own drink. “_Abstaining _ isn’t really in my vocabulary.”

“Small miracles,” Castiel affirms, regarding him seriously.

“But anyway, hate to poke holes in your little theory, but I’ve never _ fed _ on anything, or anyone, during sex in my life. Well, unless you count whipped cream and chocolate sauce,” Dean says with a wink. “Wouldn’t know how to _ feed_, even if I wanted to. No tentacles or… fangs, or whatever it is you think I’m supposed to be sporting. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

Castiel squints. “Succubi don’t have any of those things. Feeding comes as naturally to you as breathing. You couldn’t help it if you tried. Haven’t you noticed that you feel energized after sex, whereas most people feel sleepy? That your partners are _ more _tired than perhaps they should be? That you feel sated in a way you can’t achieve by eating food or exercising, or even masturbating?”

Opening his mouth to retort, Dean finds himself thinking twice. Castiel isn’t wrong, and that reality sits uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He reflects back on the time when he’d been living with Lisa and she’d gone on a girls’ trip to Vegas for the week. That was the _ closest _ Dean had ever come to cheating on her. He’d been crawling out of his skin by the week’s end, cranky and moody, somehow exhausted and disastrously restless at the same time. He’d practically pounced on Lisa the moment she’d walked through the door, and they’d gone three rounds, with practically no recovery period in between for him. At the time, he’d just thought he was a fucking stud.

Now, though… Dean blinks up at Castiel, who continues waiting patiently as Dean averts his eyes again, staring blankly down at the dark wooden table, still remembering. After they’d finished that night, Lisa had passed out despite the early hour and slept well into the next day. Dean had even gotten Ben up for school and onto the bus without her. He remembers distinctly feeling so jazzed that he’d cleaned the entire house _ and _ mowed the lawn before Lisa had managed to drag herself downstairs for coffee. In retrospect, it _ did _seem a little strange. 

But that certainly didn’t make him a _ monster. _

“Lots of people feel pumped up after sex,” Dean argues, a bit petulantly. 

“You feel _ full,_” Castiel persists. “One partner could never satisfy you. Long-term relationships have fallen apart because your significant other was unable to keep up. You _ need _ sex, the way humans need air. You eat and drink food because you can, because you enjoy it, because it greases your wheels. But you’re _ hungry _ for sex, Dean.”

Castiel has drifted forward, is leaning so far across the table that he’s practically in Dean’s space, and the air between them is so thick it almost seems to _ shimmer. _Dean presses his eyes closed and shakes his head, but when he opens them again Castiel is still there, still staring at him with eyes that seem to bore right through to his soul.

“How do you know all this?” Dean whispers before clearing his throat, annoyed at the vulnerability leaking through. “I’m not saying I believe you,” he amends. “But for argument’s sake. How do you know all this? Why do you even care?” 

Sitting back a little, Castiel inhales and exhales softly, and Dean watches with fascination as his lips part around the breath. “There exists more than just your succubi family in this world,” Castiel says carefully. “More than one family of succubi, and of their counterpart, incubi. And between all of those creatures, there is supposed to be a balance. One succubus for each incubus. Soulmates, in a fashion, each a perfectly complementary pair. Together, they have the ability to satiate each other completely. Once fully bonded, their energies are harnessed, one tamed by the other. It’s much easier, especially for the incubi, to live and pass as human that way.”

“Why?” Dean’s question tumbles out automatically, forgetting for a moment that he’s not supposed to be buying anything Castiel is selling.

But Castiel just runs a long, delicate finger down the peeling wet label of his beer bottle and continues obligingly. “While succubi are extremely, sometimes impossibly attractive and tend to have no problem finding potential partners, incubi are far more dangerous. No human can resist their lure. Without a mate, both the succubus and incubus must prey on humans to survive, but unless they are willing to kill, they’re also doomed to never be fully satisfied, never feel fully complete.” 

“But I don’t get it, what’s all that got to do with you?” 

Castiel adjusts himself in his chair, sitting forward once again, and Dean finds himself following his every movement, wishing he could inch closer too. “I come from a long line of incubi, Dean, and for the longest time, I’ve assumed that I have no mate. My family knows all of the others of our kind, and there was… no one. No one for me, that is. My brothers and sisters, all of them are matched. No one even knew that you existed, not until today.” Castiel pauses and waits like he’s expecting Dean to do or say something, but Dean’s not quite connecting the dots. Castiel sighs and stretches out his hand. Dean thinks the movement looks somewhat unconscious, like Castiel wishes they shared the kind of familiarity that would allow him to casually reach out and touch, only for comfort. “There is a thing that happens when incubi and succubi soulmates meet for the first time. Our eyes glow, the way they do while we feed, only brighter. Blindingly bright. I’ve heard that the feeling can be… disarming, even painful. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard the stories so many times that I suppose I was still a lot more prepared than you had any way to be. I shouldn’t have left you, Dean, and for that, I apologize. I panicked, if I’m being honest.” 

“My eyes don’t glow during sex,” Dean replies confidently as if that’s a perfectly sane thing to argue about at this point.

“How would you know?” Castiel counters, and once again, Dean closes his open mouth.

“I’m still not… Cas, you’re gonna have to spell this out for me. I’m not getting it.”

“We’re soulmates,” Castiel says bluntly. “That’s why you collapsed, earlier. It’s why I ran. It’s why you want to touch me so badly, why you haven’t been able to stop thinking about me.”

“Whoa, presume, much? I haven’t…” Dean tries to get indignant, but Castiel’s standing now, leaning halfway across the table, and Dean’s mouth has never been dryer. He doubts he could get any words out, even if he had them. 

“I’m tired, Dean,” Castiel says. “And I’m crawling out of my skin around you. I’ve been hiding here, secluding myself away, feeding _ only _ when I absolutely have to. For almost two _ decades. _I despise influencing people, taking from them without their consent. I do it to stay alive, but only just. You…” Castiel’s moved within inches of his face now, so when he licks his lips, Dean has to fight down the urge to open his mouth and lean forward to bite his perfectly pink tongue. “I never thought that I would have this chance. I never dared to hope. I’ve always assumed I’d be alone, barely holding it together, forever.” 

“So, you’re like, a voluntarily celibate sex demon?” Dean asks skeptically, though his voice is tight when he speaks. “No offense, but that’s weirder than anything else I’ve heard so far.”

He worries for a moment that he’s gone too far, that his words were insulting, but Castiel seems unperturbed. “Feeding without consent is not ethical. And outing myself is not an option. I’d be run off at best, hunted and killed in all probability. Small towns aren’t good for secrets, but big cities are far worse for our kind. I like it here. I have allies and it’s relatively safe, which is why I’ve kept to myself as much as possible. I hate the idea that my very presence… _ changes _ people. By nature, it’s impossible for anyone to like or be interested in me for _ me. _”

Castiel’s so close now that Dean can feel his warm breath on his lips, and he smells like his bedroom and the ocean and a perfect, sunny fall day. Dean’s eyelids grow heavy, Castiel being so close is _ intoxicating, _and he wants nothing more than to throw him down onto the table and see what happens when their bodies press together. Instead, he gathers whatever wits he has left and asks, “Are you… are you influencing me now?” 

Shaking his head minutely, Castiel smiles. “I can’t influence you, Dean. You want me because I’m yours. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean murmurs, but he can’t deny that everything about Castiel feels _ right, _ feels like it _ fits, _ and it’s all he can do not to reach out and grab him by the front of his stupid shirt. He’s so close, and Dean can’t help but anticipate him moving to close the gap between them at any second. But to his chagrin, Castiel waits, just hovering there with his hands bracing against the wood of the table. The bottom of his shirt is loose, almost dangling into his stew bowl as he leans over, watching Dean, always watching.

“What…” Dean’s voice fails him, so he licks his lips, swallows hard and tries again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s a little red flag waving, warning him about a particular thing Castiel has said. Shaking his head a little to clear it, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again to find Castiel still _ right there, _ staring down at him intently. “Not saying I’m buying all of this,” he starts, “But… _ say _ it is true. If you… if we…” Lacking descriptive words, Dean settles for making a crude gesture with his fingers. “That whole _ bonding _thing, what’s up with that? I’m not gonna wake up tomorrow with my ass glued to your dick, am I?” 

If Castiel’s eyebrows could go any higher they’d be in his hair, but his sapphire irises only darken and his lips part like he’s turning Dean’s words into pictures in his head. He looks down for a moment before resuming the unnerving, hardcore staring and putting together a reply. “Completely separate,” he tells him, and Dean feels a rush of relief that _ if _he decides to throw caution and common sense to the wind, he’s not going to wind up monster-married, or whatever. “Bonding requires a whole ritual and a specific incantation, from what I understand, though I’ll admit, I’m not the world’s foremost expert. When I thought I was doomed to be without a mate, I lost interest in learning about all the sordid details.” 

“Sordid, huh?” Dean flashes Castiel a grin and gets a hint of a smile in return. It changes the shape of Castiel’s face, makes him softer, sweeter, and that does nothing to temper Dean’s steadily increasing attraction to the man. “So long as you’re sure,” he continues. “Wouldn’t want either of us to end up doing anything we regret.” 

“I am one hundred percent sure that us having sex will not lead to—_mmph_,” Castiel’s words are cut off by Dean’s mouth as he finally gives in, surging forward to press their lips together fiercely before Castiel even finishes talking. 


	3. Something Borrowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is porn, fair warning!

First kisses are always something Dean particularly enjoys. While not overtly sexual, they’re predictably accompanied by a heady rush and a tingle that spreads from his mouth downward every time his lips touch another person’s for the first time. And he kisses new people a _ lot, _multiple times a week (if it’s a good one). So suffice it to say, Dean doesn’t think twice about whether he’s ready to get skin-on-skin with Castiel. 

Except, no amount of kissing _ other _ people could have remotely prepared him for what touching _ Castiel _ feels like.

_ Nothing _ in Dean’s past compares, and he quickly finds himself drowning, in the absolute best way. One press of Castiel’s lips to his own and Dean forgets every hesitation, every fear, each and every _ anything _ holding him back. They’re not kissing over a dinner table any longer; they’re thousands of feet underwater, they’re basking in the arctic’s midnight sun, they’re in the impossible vacuum of outer space. Dean knows nothing, _ feels nothing _ but _ Cas, Cas, Castiel. _

He shifts to get closer and, upon connecting his knee with the wood, is abruptly brought back down to earth by the table in their way. Its very existence is jarring and nonsensical and Dean finds himself growling and sweeping the plates aside so that he can crawl up onto his knees on the hard surface. One of the plates goes crashing down, shattering on the kitchen floor, but neither of them seems to notice. Castiel’s waiting, his mouth already open, slick and wet and eager. When Dean meets his lust-drunk gaze, he can clearly see iridescent, unearthly neon blue pulsing at the edges of Castiel’s irises. The sight should make him panic, should make him _ freak, _ but Castiel’s hands are already slipping underneath his shirt, already hot as fire where his fingers graze tracks along Dean’s skin, and he’s _ gone, _ he’s cooked. Stick a fork in Dean, he is _ done, _ because _ all _that glowing does is make him even hotter under the collar. 

Dimly, Dean wonders if his own eyes are doing the same thing, and he realizes that if he concentrates _ very _ hard, he can identify a green glow at the extreme edges of his vision. It takes more concentration than he has to spare to see it, though, so he quickly abandons that quest and refocuses on the desperate man in front of him. Castiel’s _ something. _ As far as normal hook-ups go, he’s all the things Dean looks for, especially in a man. Hard muscles that flex and contract under his hands. Big, warm, rough hands of his own. Thick thighs that Dean can imagine both squeezing his hips and shoving his own legs back and apart. Rough stubble that scrapes and is sure to leave the memory of itself burned into his skin. When Dean finally works Castiel’s shirt open and lets it drop down over his arms, he sees that the man is tan and taut and lickable in _ so _many ways, seemingly from head to toe. Dean wonders if he works outside shirtless to score those absent tan lines, finding the mental image of Castiel sweaty and sun-warmed mouth-watering as fuck, so much so that he can’t help but lean forward to taste for himself. 

Lips parted as he kisses the dip just north of Castiel’s collarbone, tongue flicking out over his skin, Dean can’t help but let out a groan when salty musk floods his mouth. His hands tighten around Castiel’s trim hips, his mind distantly marveling at how _ good _ he tastes, what an unbelievable _ not _letdown this is. It feels improbable, that Castiel could be everything Dean imagined him to be and more, but here he is. Minutes ago, some part of Dean had been sure that when they finally touched, it would be like biting into a piece of wax fruit. A tantalizing, enticing image that winds up nothing but empty and flavorless, all promise and zero fulfillment, once you break through to the beige disappointment hiding on the inside. 

But there’s nothing about Castiel that’s disappointing, in any way, shape, or form. Kissing him, hell, just _ touching _ him is like coming home, like stepping in out of the rain, like biting into a perfectly cooked burger after not eating all damn day. Just like that, Dean _ knows _ that what Castiel’s told him is true. Every sexual encounter he’s ever had, every craving he’s ever _ thought _he satisfied in the past, he never realized that he was barely spilling drops into the tank, running on fumes, barely making it from one hit to the next. It would be impossible to explain if he tried to put the feelings into words, but Dean’s never felt as alive as he does when Castiel’s naked chest presses against his own. And Castiel seems to feel the same, if his enthusiastic kissing and shoving at Dean’s clothes is any sign. 

Without regard to their surroundings and with no clear memory of when his shirt came off, Dean shoves his hands down the back of Castiel’s pants, grabbing handfuls of his firm ass and using the leverage to tug him in close. At the same time, he slips from his knees down to his ass on the table, squirming until Castiel’s settled in between his still-clothed thighs. A groan that sounds way too frustrated for Dean’s liking punches its way out from Castiel’s throat as he pulls back slightly. Reflexively, Dean chases the warmth of his mouth, eyes still closed and foreheads still pressed together as Castiel gets an arm in between their chests, fingers working their way up to cover Dean’s lips and keep him from re-initiating their make-out session.

“We should move this upstairs,” Castiel suggests breathlessly, though he doesn’t even attempt to step away. Dean’s honestly not sure that he could either. The idea of _ not _ touching Castiel right now even _ sounds _painful and he’s not keen on trying it. 

“Why?” he replies, hating that he sounds so whiny and desperate, but also sort of into how wrecked he is already, how wrecked _ Castiel _made him just from a little tongue-on-tongue action. Dean just hopes Cas digs it, too. 

Watching the way Castiel licks his lips and how the pulsating light in his eyes strengthens, Dean decides it’s safe to assume that he does.

“Because,” Castiel replies in a perfectly measured way that belies none of the carefully restrained arousal painted across his face, “I’ve been holding back my entire life, and I have no intention of doing that with you. And I’m increasingly concerned that we might break the table.” 

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Dean pants, the promise Castiel is offering all the incentive he needs to shove forward and shimmy off of said table. “Cas,” he says evenly as he stands up and Castiel hasn’t moved one single inch, “Personal space?” But Castiel just grins, a feral, wild thing that’s more teeth and warning than anything else, and pounces again. He wraps arms around Dean’s neck and kisses him open-mouthed and wet as he drives him back towards the stairs. By the time they hit the first step, Dean’s got a hand tangled tight in Castiel’s hair and the other shoved down the back of his pants again, and he’s in _ no _damn shape to figure out how to get one foot in front of the other to get up the stairs. With Castiel’s tongue down his throat, it’s all he can do at this point just to stay vertical. 

Nonetheless, Dean makes what he’ll swear is a solid attempt to ascend the steps without breaking apart from Castiel, ultimately failing miserably and hardly fighting as he slides down onto his ass on the midway landing. While Dean was busy trying to not send them both crashing down a half-flight of uncarpeted stairs, Castiel has managed to work his pants open, abruptly pulling away from Dean’s lips to sink down and mouth at the boxer brief-covered bulge that’s now exposed to air. Dean’s jeans hang low off of his hips and he _ would _kick them off, except that the heat from Castiel’s breath and the teasing pressure of his lips are currently causing his eyes to roll so far back in his head Dean thinks he can see his brain. Naturally, working to remove the remainder of his clothing drops a ways down his priority list. 

“Fuck, Cas,” he murmers, his second hand joining his first on Cas’ head, fingers tugging where they’re wound into the already fucked-to-hell strands of his dark hair. It’s soft and thick, and Castiel looks so sexy bent over the way he is, and Dean could _ really _ get used to this. Castiel makes a low, approving sound in return, though whether it’s to Dean’s hair-pulling or just his undone state in general is anyone’s guess. All too soon, Castiel abandons Dean’s crotch to lick his way up his stomach, taking a nipple in between his teeth and rolling it gently as he shoves impatiently at Dean’s pants and boxers with both hands. Helping the best he’s able from where he’s pinned under Castiel’s weight, Dean manages to kick his shoes off, making sure his socks go with as Castiel finally succeeds in getting his pants and underwear down around his ankles. Once he’s fully naked, Dean snakes hands back down to Castiel’s hips, only to realize Castiel’s somehow beaten him to the punch. Just like that, Dean’s hands are on naked flesh and Cas’ cock is _ right _fucking there. 

And Castiel’s kneeling at this point, knees astride Dean’s thighs at the edge of the landing and because of that, when he straightens up it puts Dean’s face at eye-level to his groin. A hand still on Cas’ hip, Dean looks up through his lashes and when his eyes connect with Castiel’s, he can almost _ feel _the pulse of arousal course through Cas’ system. He knows he didn’t imagine it, because the cock in front of his face twitches, all thick and pink and swollen and making Dean’s mouth water to look at it. 

But Castiel seems to sense his intentions, and before Dean can so much as kitten-lick the crown, he’s being knocked onto his back and swallowed down fully instead. The backs of his thighs smack against Castiel’s shoulders, Cas’ hands gripping his hips tightly as he moans and swallows around Dean’s (_nothing to sneeze at) _length like a starving man. It’s all Dean can do not to come down his throat in the first fifteen seconds, and Castiel doesn’t take it any easier after that, barely coming up for air. When he pulls off, there’s spit on his chin and color in his cheeks and his irises are eclipsed completely by that alien blue glow.

“Come for me,” he demands, chest heaving, before relaxing his jaw and taking Dean fully again. For another few seconds, Dean fights, determined not to end things so quickly, but Castiel is _ skilled, _purring and swirling his tongue, the muscles of his throat vibrating around Dean’s cock in such a way that would have a lesser man reduced to tears. As it is, Dean’s not far off. His thighs squeeze around Cas’ head, hands gripping his hair like a lifeline as his stomach muscles contract and hot, flooding heat spills from his abdomen down Castiel’s throat. He doesn’t have to work to see the green this time, it floods his vision and makes his whole body tingle all the way down to the marrow in his bones. 

Vaguely, in a wholly detached way, Dean knows he’s moaning, maybe even yelling, but he’s pretty powerless to do anything but rock into Castiel’s mouth and ride the wave until his body decides it’s ready to go lax again. Breathing like he ran a marathon, Dean cracks an eye open to see Castiel hovering over him, smiling a grin that’s heavy with self-satisfaction.

“‘M sorry,” Dean croaks, embarrassed even though Castiel _ definitely _gave him the okay to finish. “Feel like I jumped the shark back there.” Dean rubs hands over his face and looks up at Castiel guiltily, but Castiel’s wolfish grin just widens. 

“Oh, Dean,” he says. “Human rules don’t apply when we’re together. Turn over, hands and knees.” 

Slightly taken aback, Dean doesn’t argue, mostly because Castiel’s hand is tracking up the inside of his thigh to where… he’s hard again. He’s _ hard again. _Dean jolts upright, looking down at his crotch in partial alarm. “Son of a bitch,” he murmurs, not displeased. “I’m not gonna, like, be walking around with a permanent woody though, right?” 

Castiel reaches out to touch Dean’s face, replying as his knuckle trails down Dean’s cheek. “It’ll go away once we’re both fully satisfied. That may take a while, but it will happen. I have brothers who found their soulmates at very young ages. I’ve been burdened with having to listen to the “first night” stories and suffering the scarring accompanying mental images more times than is reasonable or fair.” 

“Got your own now, maybe,” Dean replies hopefully as Castiel’s thumb tugs at the side of his bottom lip.

“Yes,” he replies with obvious satisfaction, leaning in to kiss Dean sweet and lingering, expression soft as he pulls away. “I suppose I do. Now turn over.” 

Dean moves to comply and then stops, acutely aware of Castiel’s hand resting warmly on his hip. It’s difficult, but he resists the temptation to pull Castiel in or let himself be pushed down. “The stairs are hard,” he complains. “And my knees ain’t what they used to be.” Castiel starts, glancing around in surprise as if he hadn’t even realized where they were.

“Oh,” is all Castiel says, and then he’s scooping Dean up with an arm around his lower back, dragging him to his feet. There’s a moment where the world seems to slow and it’s just the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes, but their frantic need to touch and devour quickly becomes all-consuming once again with just one press of lips. Dean’s not sure who closes the gap this time, nor does he care, at least until Castiel seems to once again forget that they were heading for the bedroom and Dean ends up sprawled across the upper set of steps with his head knocking against the wood. 

“C’mon horndog,” he murmurs, more affectionate than he should be with what amounts to a random stranger as he struggles to move both of them in an upward direction. Somehow he manages to continue kissing Castiel, increasingly breathless as his partner takes the lead in dragging them both up the stairs. Somewhere between the top step and the doorway to Castiel’s room, the inside of Dean’s head turns significantly cloudy again, the way it was during that first kiss over the dinner table. With one of the last fleeting glimpses of clear thought, he figures the bout of lucidity must have appeared because he got off. Which also explains why Castiel can hardly seem to get one foot in front of the other at this point, mouthing at any and every stretch of Dean’s skin he can reach and rutting against him like a teenager. 

_ Just a little further and we can be in a bed, _Dean thinks, but then Castiel growls and bites roughly at his lip, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and whirling him around to shove his body up against the bedroom door. Dean fumbles with the knob and gets it open, but finds himself grabbing onto the wooden frame for support as the door swings wide. 

“Holy _ fuck,_” he gasps as Castiel’s hands part his cheeks and a bold tongue laps enthusiastically over his hole. Dean’s fingers tighten their grip on the wall as Castiel’s mouth works him relentlessly and without hesitation, his saliva running down the inside of Dean’s thigh as he struggles to stand. When Castiel adds a finger, it’s all Dean can do not to immediately come for a second time. It’s like the man knows _ exactly _ how to touch him, every one of his tricks and tips the very thing Dean would have asked for at that moment, had he not been beaten to the punch. It’s unnerving, it’s impossible, and it’s _ so _ fucking hot. And if that weren’t enough, the _ sounds _Castiel makes as he eats him out are murder on Dean’s staying power. He slurps and moans like he’s having the best meal of his life, and fuck, Dean supposes that might actually be true. At one point, he grabs Dean’s hips and tips him forward so he can spear him on his tongue, and Dean feels actual tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

So when Castiel eases him to the ground, soothes him down onto all fours and slides between his knees, Dean doesn’t even remember to protest about the damn hardwood floor. He feels Castiel’s cock nudging at his wet hole and distantly thinks about how he’s _ never _ enjoyed prep that much in his life. That thought is unceremoniously booted from his head when Castiel pushes inside, though, because all Dean can think about at that point is _ more, more, more. _Castiel’s got a hand in between his shoulder blades and it slides up to Dean’s shoulder once he’s fully seated, squeezing gently as Dean mumbles some nonsense he knows he’d be embarrassed by if he weren’t so fucking turned on. 

“God, _ yes, _ Cas, _ please,_" is all he’s really aware of saying, and Castiel runs gentle hands down his sides as he starts to move, thrusting slow and deep and sending tingling shockwaves all throughout Dean’s body. His movements pick up quickly until he’s fucking Dean so hard that they’re edging across the floor little by little, but all Dean can do is lay his head down on his arms and moan. His eyes are so heavy-lidded that he barely notices when the green starts flooding his vision once again, but Castiel’s right there with him, shaking and shoving up against him, hard and soft in all the right ways. Despite being less than with it at the moment, Dean knows that they come at almost exactly the same time, bodies locking together and eyesight disappearing completely behind a green haze with sparks of blue bursting at the edges. He claws at the floor, feels Castiel’s hands on his flank and in his hair, feels heat pouring inside of him that does _ nothing _but make him want to turn over and ask Castiel to fuck him again.

They’re collapsed on the floor when Dean starts to come back to himself, though Castiel is still pressed against his back and his cock is still rock-hard inside Dean’s ass. A quick drop of Dean’s hand to his own crotch reveals a similarly revived situation, and he braces for a moment, waiting for exhaustion or whatever other post-coital feelings to hit, but they never do. His skin is still thrumming, butterflies in his stomach and a pulsating need to kiss, to _ claim, _ to fuck pervading his entire being. “Cas,” he murmurs, reaching back and squeezing Castiel’s thigh. “You _ did _finish, right?” Far be it for Dean to be an inconsiderate partner. 

“Mmph,” Castiel mutters into space just beneath Dean’s hairline, his teeth grazing the skin there before clamping down lightly over the meat between his neck and shoulder. “_Yes,” _ he growls, sounded sated and incredibly aroused all at the same time. “That was… _ Dean,” _is all he can apparently manage, but Dean can feel his hips already circling, little teasing thrusts that he suddenly can’t wait to turn into more. Castiel works them both slowly, though, sliding an arm under Dean’s head to cushion it and wrapping another around his torso so he can stroke Dean’s cock. The pressure between them builds casually, lazily this time, with Castiel pressing soft kisses to his shoulders and hair. This time when Dean comes, it’s with a sigh and a soft whine, Castiel’s big hand buoying him through it. In turn, Castiel comes inside Dean again, and Dean already knows before Cas has finished moaning out his orgasm that he’s ready to go again. 

They manage to make it to the bed between rounds after that, although they never stop touching. Castiel pulls wipes from the bedside table and they clean up some of the mess stuck to their bodies even as they’re ramping up for round… _ three? Four? _Dean’s not even sure at this point, but he’s nowhere near ready to stop. 

The bed is blissfully soft after the stairs and the floor, and Dean can’t imagine ever wanting to leave it. He lets himself be pulled down, to be surrounded by Castiel, knowing he’d willingly fuck until he died here, without a care in the world. That thought would scare him, but looking into Castiel’s eyes, feeling his skin pressed against Dean’s own, it’s hard to remember why it should.

Along with the wipes, Castiel produces lube, and Dean’s so entranced he doesn’t even make a comment about how they’re a little beyond that at this point. He just laughs and kisses Castiel, swipes his tongue through Cas’ mouth until he groans, settling in between his thighs and rolling his hips like they’ve been doing this for a hundred years and he knows exactly what Castiel _ needs, _what he wants. 

And then Castiel pulls him in tight, starts nipping at the shell of Dean’s ear and rumbling broken pleas for Dean to take him, to fuck him, and the urgency Dean feels to please has him a mess. He loses the lube in the sheets, his hands shake, he feels like a goddamn teenager faced with his first time, but he _ can’t stop, _ can barely slow down_. _ For his part, Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. Dean’s barely worked a finger inside and he’s already arching up underneath him, running hands all over Dean’s torso, and keeping up with those _ sounds _ that aren’t doing a damn thing to calm Dean’s anxious need. By the time he’s pushing inside (_could have been minutes, could have been days), _ Castiel’s downright squirming on the bed and Dean wastes no time with _ slow _ and _ careful. _Impossibly, he’s more aroused than ever, rock-hard as if he’s been edged all night and determined to make Castiel come like a violent storm crashing from the sea onto the mainland. 

Castiel doesn’t disappoint, and Dean quickly realizes he _ is _ the storm. Ripping at the sheets and bracing his hands over his head, he’s all powerful muscle and tight heat, coiling and ready to unleash. Despite being the one doing the fucking and the one literally on top, Dean honestly is under _ no _ impression that he’s in control here, with Castiel’s strong hand around the back of his neck and his calves crossed tight at Dean's ass.

“_Harder,_” he demands, voice cracking slightly on the hilt of one of Dean’s thrusts but still dominant as hell. Dean threads arms under and around Cas’ shoulders, cradles his head and watches as the glow spilling out from under Castiel’s half-lidded eyes surges and crests. Once again, he feels himself be pulled under, pulled _ in _as Castiel comes, his own eyes slamming shut against all of the sensations and even still, everything Dean sees is bright as day.


	4. Something Blue

After that, things get a little blurry. For what feels like an endless amount of time, all Dean can see is Castiel, all he can feel is skin and warmth, wetness and pressure, coming together, relief and pleasure, all wrapped up in Castiel’s arms. It’s power and ecstasy, everything Dean never knew he needed, _ wanted, _ couldn’t live without. It’s all so intoxicating that neither of them seems to realize (_or perhaps they don’t care) _ that they _ can’t stop. _

Dimly, Dean notices the changing shadows, the rise and fall of light and darkness around them, but it’s all peripheral to being tangled up with Cas, to satiating himself on everything Castiel can provide. _ Besides, _ Dean thinks during one of the few glimpses of rational thought he can grab, _ Castiel’s the expert here. If he’s not worried, why should I be? _

So Dean allows himself to get lost, to throw all caution and concern to the wind, to focus solely on his lips on Castiel’s skin, Castiel’s hands on his body, and being inside of each other in every way possible. 

At some point, though, Dean becomes aware that they aren’t alone. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers yelling, feels Castiel being pulled away from him. All he can do is react and so grabs on, tries his best to tug Castiel back down, to sink back into the haze of lust and sex and each other. Castiel seems to feel similarly, snarling wildly and shoving at whatever is touching him until it gives up and retreats. Lulled into a false sense of security, Dean lets Castiel cover his mouth with his own, kissing him deeply and wrapping arms around his neck in return. 

It’s like a cold bucket of water over the head when a thunderclap erupts _ inside _ the room, accompanied by an enormous bright white light that puts both of theirs to shame. Neither Dean nor Castiel have time to so much as gasp before they’re thrown in opposite directions, off of the bed and onto the floor. Dean has the misfortune of crashing headlong into the wall, disrupting a hanging framed portrait of a boat and sending it crashing to the ground alongside him. The first thing he does when he lands in a heap of broken glass and tangled limbs is search out Castiel, his body and mind both screaming to be back in his arms. But as he crawls forward, in the direction he can _ feel _Castiel is, he’s stopped, held prisoner by an invisible barrier that doesn’t yield no matter how hard Dean throws himself into it.

“What the—?” He looks down to see the carpet rolled back, replaced by bright red designs painted directly on the hardwood. Dean doesn’t recognize a one of them and decides they look closer to a child’s fingerpainting than anything else. Regardless, he can’t seem to move past the outer circle. 

From across the room, Castiel growls and Dean watches as he strains on his knees against his own little circular prison, glaring at something to Dean’s right, over by the door. “Sorry, little bro,” comes a voice that makes Dean’s head snap in that direction, though it doesn’t sound sorry at all. The light flicks on and a man steps out of the shadows, tossing a pair of boxers in Dean’s direction, and winging another at Castiel. With the distance between them, Dean’s head is starting to clear, enough that he flushes and yanks on the proffered clothing as quickly as possible, since apparently, they have company.

“What is the meaning of this? What are you doing here, Gabriel?” Castiel’s voice is gravelly and rough, edged with a frustration that pricks at Dean’s senses in all the wrong ways, considering. His cock twitches in his shorts, and he has to deep breathe for a minute until he’s sure he won’t make an ass of himself (more). 

“What am I—_seriously? _ Isn’t it obvious? You two muttonheads got down and dirty without bonding first, and I was the only asshole willing to come down here and clean up your mess.” Gabriel’s standing less than a foot from Dean’s circle, and he can finally see him properly. He’s short, Dean can tell without seeing them together that Cas has several inches on him. _ Sam would dig his hair, _ Dean thinks absently, watching the dude run a frustrated hand through his wavy golden locks. “Well, Mom was willing, but I spared you both _ that _experience. Thank me anytime you’re ready.” 

“Why would we… Gabriel, bonding isn’t required before intercourse?” Castiel looks confused, his brow furrowing together in a way that Dean can only think to describe as _ fucking adorable. Focus, _he scolds himself. 

“Bonding?” He interjects weakly, and Castiel’s eyes flash to his. It’s unnerving to see a brief wave of discomfort, maybe even fear pass across his face. 

“There’s no pressure, Dean,” he says reassuringly, placing his hand on the barrier like he wishes he could reach out and touch. 

“Uh, yes pressure,” Gabriel interrupts. “Hence me busting up your naked time and spending my _ one _free day this week off from work fingerpainting on your bedroom floor while you two kept at it like bunnies five feet away. Sorry ‘bout the resale value, Dean-o, but it had to be done.”

For a second, Dean thinks Gabriel’s talking about the resale value of his _ ass, _but fortunately, he realizes before he says anything stupid that the other man obviously means the vandalized property. 

Castiel sighs. “Please spare us the dramatics and explain, Gabriel.”

Throwing up his hands, Gabriel glares at his brother, and Dean flops down to the floor, exhaustion really starting to set in. Also, his stomach is growling like a motherf—

“You two have been in this room for almost four days straight, Cassie,” Gabriel says bluntly, and Castiel’s eyes widen in shock.

“There’s no way,” Dean protests. “We just came upstairs like, a few hours ago.” 

“Uh, sure, that’s why the pot of chili on the table is basically a biohazard. Look, check my phone if you don’t believe me.” Gabriel produces a smartphone from his pocket and hands it over to Dean, who can’t help but note that only the phone crosses the barrier, not so much as a nail on Gabriel’s finger. Sure enough, the electronic calendar seems to confirm what Gabriel’s saying, though Dean does a quick google search just to be sure. He looks up at Castiel, slightly panicked.

“_How?! _”

Gabriel swipes his phone back when Dean offers it and makes a face. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, future bro-in-law. If your butt buddy here hadn’t clapped his hands and banished me off the other day after he so _ rudely _summoned me from my own marital bed—”

“_Summoned?!” _Dean gapes.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Gabriel. I listened to you mock me for over half an hour before I even _ drew _that sigil. You had plenty of warning.” 

“—I would have eventually gotten around to telling him that succubi and incubi who fuck before they bond create the opposite phenomenon that bonding does.” Gabriel continues rambling without missing a beat, but Castiel looks startled. “Satiety and energy balancing-wise, I mean.” 

“A feedback loop.” Castiel sighs resignedly in recognition, slumping over his bent knees and dropping his face into his hands. 

“You got it,” Gabriel affirms cheerily. “The two of you would have continued feeding off of each other until one of you kicked the bucket if I hadn’t stepped in. That’s right, fucked to death.” He sighs dreamily. “What a way to go. So maybe cut the attitude and pony up a little gratitude, boys. After all, I’m the one who had to witness my baby bro going balls deep on his new man, and congratulations, by the way, he’s very bendy.” Dean scowls and Castiel rolls his eyes. “Anyway, the devil’s traps are to keep you two love bunnies apart until you’re properly bonded. Let you out before then, and it’ll be…” Gabriel pauses to make a few obscene gestures with his hands that Dean is sort of remiss he can’t find funny, at least outwardly. “As advertised, the ritual will even out your energies, make you balance the other instead of just _ tossing _power-ups back and forth. Pun intended.” 

“Alright, enough, Gabriel,” Castiel warns, waving him off. “I’m sorry, but this doesn’t make any sense to me. You’re telling me that _ everyone _in our family was bonded prior to coming together with their soulmate? I find that very hard to believe. You were introduced to Kali when you were fifteen, and your bonding ceremony wasn’t until you were both twenty-one.” He eyes his brother suspiciously, and Gabriel tugs on his collar, the first sign of anything but cocky confidence Dean’s seen from the man since he was thrown into the wall.

Gabriel clears his throat and shrugs. “Yea, well, appearances can be deceiving.” He stops talking but Castiel just stares and waits and eventually, he relents. “Alright, fine. Second blood ceremony was for show. I might’ve ended up in a similar _ scenario… _ Except mine ended with Mom and Dad holding off Kali’s _ very _ angry father and the most awkward blood ceremony you could ever imagine. Pretty sure the fact that I was the only thing standing between Kali and a life of perpetual loneliness and possibly being hunted by humans was _ barely _ enough to keep that guy from cutting off my fingers and toes one by one before feeding them back to me. _ Any _way...” 

“And no one thought this was important information for me to have?!” Castiel’s face is furious now, and Dean once again has to will his dick down, though his mind is definitely concerned about the kind of things that are apparently turning him on these days. 

“Cassie,” Gabriel replies patiently, dropping his hands to his sides. “No one thought you had a _ mate. _Ever since Mom dropped the bomb that there wasn’t one out there for you, you’ve made it crystal clear that you hate hearing about soulmate stuff. None of us wanted to remind you. No one saw the point, really.”

“The least you could have done is _ led _with this info when I saw you last,” Castiel grumbles, averting his eyes.

“Bro, you said you were gonna take a trip home, talk to the ‘rents, make sure this was what you thought it was before you blew Dean’s life up.” 

Castiel darts a glance at him guiltily, but Dean just shrugs, offering him a half-smile. “I changed my mind,” is all Castiel says. 

“Yea, well, you’re probably right then, that one’s on me. You forget what that initial draw is like. It’s been half a lifetime since I went full-Incubus and being normal fucks with your head, or so I’ve heard.” 

“Ah, yes,” Castiel replies with another eye roll. “It’s Kali that’s made you like this.” 

“Whatever, listen, you ready to do this or what? No offense, but this room fucking _ reeks _like sex, and I’ve had about all I can stand at this point. Actually…” Gabriel walks over and opens the french doors leading out to the balcony, allowing a spill of cool, fresh sea air to rush into the room. It’s chilly on Dean’s bare skin, but refreshing, so he doesn’t complain. Glancing out the door, Dean notes that it’s night and the moon is full, reflecting eerily off of the ocean water and making everything look twice as bright. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, snapping him back to the present and whatever it is they’re about to wander into together. “You don’t have to do this. I understand that we’re still essentially strangers. If you’re not sure, Gabriel can get you out of here. You can still leave, if you’d like. I wouldn’t blame you.” Castiel’s tone is sincere, but that pained expression he’d worn when he offered Dean an out during their first conversation is back in full force. 

“What would happen to you?” Strangely, Dean realizes that the answer to that question _ is _ currently his main concern. It’s not like he has anything waiting for him back in Kansas, not really. Bobby’s got a wife and his own life, he’d probably be relieved as hell to hear Dean’s moving on. That thought brings him up short, though. _ Moving on? Is that what this is? _ Castiel’s lips are forming words, but Dean can’t hear a thing he’s saying, because he’s way too busy imagining packing up and driving back to Kansas _ without him. _The very concept fills him with anxiety and premature regret. He may not have a lifetime of shared experiences with Castiel, not yet, but to say they’re strangers is a lie. 

Dean very well may live to regret this, but he knows right then that he’s going through with this bonding bullshit, whatever that may mean.

“...waste away, but I’ve done alright for myself thus far. Really, Dean, you don’t owe me anything.”

Shaking his head and blinking, Dean tries his best to focus. “What?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake—” Gabriel moves like he’s going to slap Dean upside the head, stopping short when he realizes that to do so, he’d have to cross the trap. “Listen, Romeo, now that you’ve met and fucked, Castiel can’t go back to sustaining himself by fucking townies once every six months or so. Give or take, depending on how self-flagellating he’s feeling that week.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel reprimands sharply. “Don’t.” 

Gabriel ignores him. “You leave, he dies. That’s the long and short of it. Maybe not quickly, but those are the cold, hard facts.”

“It doesn’t matter, Dean. You still don’t owe me.”

“What about me?” Dean asks, more out of curiosity than actually contemplating doing anything with the information.

Gabriel shrugs. “It’ll suck. Probably feel like the worst broken heart you’ve ever had, plus you’ll have to fuck around at least twice as much for a while, but you’ll live. Eventually, you’ll go back to how you were before you met Cassie.” He shakes his head. “Not exactly a fair shake, if you ask me.” 

“Really not,” Dean agrees, though the subtle ache blooming in his chest, calling out for Castiel already doesn’t particularly feel like _ nothing_. “It doesn’t matter, though,” he continues. “I’m staying, we’re doing this. We’ll, you know, make it up as we go.” He looks up at Castiel, suddenly unsure. “You know, so long as you want me too, or whatever.” 

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, placing his hand on the invisible barrier at the edge of the trap once more. “I never knew that I’d been waiting my whole life for you. I couldn’t want anything, _ anyone _more than I want you, and this.” Dean ducks his head, fairly certain he’s never been so red in his life.

“Disgusting,” Gabriel says lightly, producing a gnarly looking knife from his pocket. 

“I drink a lot,” Dean blurts out. “Leave wet towels on the floor in the bathroom. Sometimes I like to eat apple pie in bed, and I got this thing for binging medical soap operas. My brother says I was a nightmare to live with, and I got no way of knowing if he’s right or just being an asshole because he’s the only person I’ve ever shared space with, besides my parents. Who, uh, you know about. Well, you know ‘bout my mom. My dad, he was a mean drunk and he hated that I wasn’t straight. Besides this house, I got about a thousand dollars in my bank account, a fifty-year-old car, and some decent mechanic’s skills. I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women.” He pauses and winks. “And men.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Gabriel mutters, but Castiel’s smile is wide as he holds Dean’s gaze, hand still reaching out in his direction. 

“I like… bees,” Castiel replies thoughtfully. “I drink an entire pot of coffee on most days, sometimes at night even though I know it’ll keep me up. Cheeseburgers are my favorite food, and I’ve always wanted a guinea pig but been afraid I wouldn’t be a very good pet parent. I’m a Virgo, it takes the better part of an entire bottle of very good whiskey to get me drunk, and despite living here, I also have almost no money to my name. My father is a writer and my mother is an uptight narcissist.” Gabriel snorts, his back turned, clearly having given up on interrupting their little moment. Castiel continues. “I’m often grumpy and temperamental and have a tendency to dwell too much on past mistakes. I’m afraid most of my hobbies are solitary and boring, because, as you know, I’m an incredibly dangerous demon. But I do enjoy knitting, especially on the porch, while watching the waves. It’s wonderful to meet you, Dean,” he finishes warmly, his eyes twinkling. 

“You too, Cas,” Dean replies, an equally dopey grin plastered across his face. 

“Are we done with the rom-com sidebar? Yes? Great.” Gabriel steps back into Dean’s line of sight and tosses something in his direction. He fumbles a little but catches it, noting that the item is an ordinary-looking wooden bowl. The knife is next, though thankfully, Gabriel puts that on the ground and kicks it over with his foot. 

“How complicated is this ritual?” Dean asks.

“Not very,” Gabriel replies, and his tone says he’s glad about that. “Dean-o, you’re first. You cut your hand, bleed into the bowl, slide both items back to me. Cassie will do the same. Then I’ll say a few words, sprinkle some magic weed into the bowl, add some fire, and then I’ll break your circles. You two clasp your cut hands together, Castiel’s gotta leave his mark, bada bing, bada boom, I get to leave and no one fucks themselves into a permanent coma. Opa!” 

“Wait—_mark? _What kind of mark?” Dean can’t help but feel a little suspicious that aspect of the ritual was glossed over so easily up until now.

“A physical sign of our connection,” Castiel explains. “It won’t hurt.” 

Dean narrows his eyes. “Nothing above the neck,” he instructs, pointing an accusing finger in Castiel’s direction. “Face tattoos, so not sexy.” 

Even from across the room he can see Castiel suppressing a smile, but he nods solemnly. “Cross my heart,” he agrees. “Nothing on the face.” 

“Do I get to leave a mark?” 

“Jesus, _ no,” _Gabriel groans, pre-empting Castiel as he opens his mouth to reply. “No mark for you, that’s not how it works.” 

“How come?” 

“Dean,” Castiel cuts in before a fed-up Gabriel can take Dean’s head off. “We’ll design something later if you’d like. A tattoo of some kind. I’d be honored.” 

That satisfies Dean’s ego plenty, just thinking about Castiel walking around with _ his _brand on his skin. “Yea, alright,” he replies a little breathlessly.

“You _ do _understand that the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to touching and whatever else it is you boys do together, right?”

“As if you don’t know,” Castiel snorts.

“...But every time you _ talk, _you’re drawing this thing out. So are we done?” 

Dean mimes zipping his lips with his fingers and looks up at Gabriel expectantly. Sighing heavily, Gabriel gestures down at Dean’s lap, where the bowl sits, waiting. “You’re up,” he reminds him.

Calmly and without hesitation, Dean slices his left hand, allowing the viscous fluid to drip steadily into the bowl. When the bleeding slows, he turns his hand over and slides the whole kit and caboodle over the line along with the knife so that Gabriel can pick it up. Watching in fascination as Castiel mimics his actions, Dean keeps his hand in a loose fist so that he doesn’t drip everywhere.

As soon as Castiel’s blood beings to run into the bowl, Gabriel starts chanting in a language that’s nothing like anything Dean’s ever heard before. Not that he considers himself particularly worldly, but the consonant-heavy, guttural noises sound _ ancient, _like something that hasn’t been spoken aloud in centuries. As Castiel slides the bowl back toward his brother, wisps of what appears to be smoke or steam twist from its center, green and blue winding together in a cloudy braid that climbs towards the ceiling. Secretly, Dean thinks it’s kind of pretty. 

_ “Noh Noo Kee Feh Kah Hees, Ah Doh Hee, Loh Noo Sah, Kah Rah En Rok Pay, Ee Oh Dah!” _

Gabriel finishings chanting with a flourish, opening his hand to release what looks to Dean’s eye like ground-up leaves into the mixture. A _ poof _of smoke and a flash of fire bursts above the sides of the bowl, swallowing the blue and green twist. When it clears, a reddish-black mixture is left sitting innocuously behind. Gabriel scrapes the knife across the line at Castiel’s feet until the paint chips away, and instantly Cas’ hand drops from where it’s returned to pressing against the barrier. The brothers both make their way over to Dean, Castiel’s hands coming up and Dean’s following automatically. When his line is broken, it feels as if the wall between them dissolves like jello, their hands left clasping together and eyes locked. Dean finds that he couldn’t look away from Castiel’s pools of ocean blue if he tried. He swallows heavily and resists the urge to lean forward and close the space between their mouths. The rush of being in Castiel’s presence is returning quickly, but it’s tempered this time. Dean wonders if that means the ritual is already starting to work. 

Regardless, Gabriel speeds on. Castiel cut his right hand, so in grabbing Dean’s left they’re already joined the way Gabriel had instructed when he takes up chanting again. This time he only says three or four words before nodding at Castiel and offering him the bowl. 

Releasing Dean’s hand, Castiel dips his palm into the mixture and holds it up for Dean to see, as if asking one last time for permission. Without hesitation, Dean nods, and Castiel reaches out to clasp his left shoulder tightly. Gabriel starts with the nonsense babbling again but Dean barely notices because his skin, his whole _ body, _ is _singing _with Castiel’s touch. Without thinking, he reaches out for support, grabbing Castiel’s own shoulder as he throws his head back, eyes rolling and barely able to contain himself from letting out a groan. 

“That’s my cue,” Gabriel mutters and just like that he’s gone, bedroom door slamming unceremoniously shut in his wake. 

Meanwhile, Dean’s vision swims, blurring and whiting out as his legs collapse underneath him.

And then there’s nothing. 

When Dean blinks awake again, he’s partially on the floor, but mostly in Castiel’s arms, looking up at the sweetest, most affectionate smile he’s ever seen. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. “How do you feel?” 

Dean takes a deep breath as Castiel helps him sit upright on his own. He takes stock of his body and finds the wound on his palm miraculously healed. Beyond that, he feels… _ great. _Unsure why that’s a surprise, he turns to find Castiel beaming. “I’m good,” he replies honestly. “You?” 

“I’m perfect,” Castiel says softly. 

Being in close proximity to Castiel is still _ something, _ just not the raging wildfires of lust it was before. Dean’s whole body tingles when he’s close and sparks alight on his skin when they touch, but it’s controllable. He feels… satiated, and unsure whether he’s ever truly experienced that before. It’s clear when he looks up and sees Castiel’s tired but happy eyes that he’s feeling the same. “You know what?” Dean asks, suddenly realizing the one feeling that’s abruptly overpowering the rest. “I’m fucking _ hungry,” _he declares. 

Castiel slumps forward, dropping his forehead to Dean’s shoulder and laughing. “I assume you mean for food,” he says with a grin when he sits back up. “Considering it’s been days since we’ve eaten.”

“God, yes,” Dean groans. “Feed me.” 

“Always,” Castiel replies easily, and that _ does _ make a low heat coil in Dean’s belly. But Castiel just stands and offers him a hand. “Come, I know a place where we can get a great burger. I’ve never actually eaten _ there_, of course, and I suddenly find that I’m anxious to. Gabriel would be shocked, though I suppose after several days it isn’t surprising that we’ve already eaten our fill of each other.” Castiel’s fingers drift gently over the raised handprint left behind on Dean’s shoulder as he moves away, miraculously free of blood but _ very _ clearly a _ mark, _ as promised_. _His touch prompts another flurry of sparks to fly through Dean, all the way down to his toes. That’s definitely something they’re going to explore later.

“So, what,” Dean prods as he gets to his feet and watches Castiel step into a pair of low-slung jeans. “You just get to go out and be a person now?”

Castiel pauses, his chest bare and his fly still undone, and Dean knows in that moment that he’ll _ never _ tire of looking at Castiel, never tire of being near him. Castiel steps forward and presses a palm to Dean’s chest, sliding it up around his neck and pulling him in for a chaste kiss. _ They fit together so beautifully. _

“Thanks to you, yes,” he replies simply. 

And while less than a week ago, Dean Winchester had been single and carefree, a human as far as he knew with a shitty past and an even more uncertain future, he finds that he can’t complain. He _ did _ come here seeking crumbs about who he is from this house by the sea, and he can’t say that he didn’t find them. It’s not _ exactly _ the kind of closure he was expecting, and he’s still got more questions than answers, but Dean expects those will come with time. Dean wonders if his mother would be proud, but when Castiel takes his hand and squeezes it, thanks him again for _ trusting _ him, for _ staying, _he decides there’s no way she couldn’t be. 

Dean Winchester, _ succubus, soulmate. _

There are worse things he could be, and none that also come with a smoking hot man on his arm. Dean smiles, squeezes Castiel’s hand back, and allows himself to be led. It’s not a hard decision to follow Castiel anywhere. 

***


End file.
